


screaming at the mirror

by virginianwolfsnake



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events (TV), A Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: Gen, pettiest argument between the pettiest small time actresses, yes this is flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:27:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26835190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/virginianwolfsnake/pseuds/virginianwolfsnake
Summary: beatrice gains the upper hand in her highly satisfying rivalry with her co-star, but also loses the moral high ground.
Relationships: Beatrice Baudelaire & Esmé Squalor, Beatrice Baudelaire & Kit Snicket
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4





	screaming at the mirror

Beatrice knows that she has been distracted in the taxi ride on the way here tonight, primarily because Kit has snapped at her for it three times. By the time they actually arrive, Beatrice is in a tearing hurry to offload her coat and head into the large auditorium — so peculiarly excited to see her least favourite associate that she can barely contain herself.

It takes them approximately five minutes to be sniffed out by Beatrice's co-star. What was once a friendship — if that is the word — has escalated recently into a spectacular rivalry. Sometimes Beatrice thinks, often after a few drinks or after she has performed poorly in one of their sparring matches, about whether they should put this aside and revisit the relationship they fostered in their youth. But that would require one of them to fly the white flag in their ongoing battle (a battle that she must admit lights up her afternoons at the theatre) and Beatrice simply isn’t given to surrender.

Esmé arrives in front of her flanked by a vague shape of a plus-one; someone Beatrice does not recognise from their organisation and pays absolutely no attention to. “You know, lace has been out for weeks,” she begins, in lieu of a more polite greeting. The bodice and sleeves of Beatrice's own dress are almost entirely composed of it, in a shade of pale orange that brings out the warmth in her hair and her eyes.

Kit sighs loudly. She has only barely been convinced to come here at all on the promise of a spectacular meal, and neither she nor her brothers have ever had any time for Esmé. Beatrice thinks of how satisfying it might be to listen to the warning note of this dramatic sigh and decide to take the high road, leaving the other actress fuming for the rest of the evening. But alas, the words are out of her mouth as quickly as her pulse picks up its pace.

“Replaced, I can only assume, by...what would you call this?” she casts her eyes over Esmé’s own gown — a monstrosity in metallic grape (which _does_ look rather gorgeous on her, even if Beatrice will never publicly admit it).

“It’s lamé,” the younger actress sniffs.

“Oh, I _know_ the fabric,” Beatrice bats back, with a little chuckle. She leans in to fix the other girl with a patronising smile and a hand on her forearm, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “But I wondered if it was a _stage_ costume? It reminds me of....” she breaks off here to widen her eyes, as if in embarrassment. “A leotard?”

Obviously irritated by that comparison, but seeing no clear victory in pursuing the line of argument, Esmé sneers back at her and summarily changes tack. “Is this your date?” she asks, nodding toward Kit, who has apparently lost interest entirely and looks back only briefly to cast a bored glance at the squabbling pair. 

“If you’d like to call it that,” Beatrice shrugs. “You know Kit; she is a dear friend. I wouldn’t bring a romantic interest to an event of this kind, though. It always appears to me a little contrived.”

Whatever Esmé has arrived with on her arm takes this as its cue to bow out and wander off to fetch a drink. Beatrice smirks proudly, and watches with undisguised glee as Esmé realises that she has already lost round two.

“Anyway,” she snaps. “That isn’t even what I wanted to discuss with you. I want my necklace back. Do you know the one?” She doesn’t pause for a response for longer than a quarter of a second. “I’m _sure_ you will; the one you _stole_ from me after openly coveting it for weeks.”

Whether she _may_ have taken the necklace specifically to upset its owner after rehearsal last week is irrelevant here; she will return it (or at least, hide it somewhere in Esmé’s dressing room) on Monday. What _is_ relevant here is that the temporarily missing item is cheap and tacky and Beatrice would never be caught dead wearing it, and so she tells her so.

“It is _not_!” This outraged little yelp is a delightfully predictable response. “I’ll have you know _I_ selected those diamonds for their clarity and sent them to a _specific_ atelier renowned for the work of its master goldsmith to create —”

“— to create that specific _gaudy_ kind of result?”

Esmé looks like she wants to scream. It is a fantastic sight. “You know, Baudelaire, this is a poor look for you.” She has descended into direct attacks now, which means that she has also lost their third round. “Chasing around after me and stealing my jewellery. I am almost flattered that you are so _desperate_ to be like me — though, of course, you could never pull off the couture,” She pauses here, aquiline nose upturned so that she can look down at her shorter rival. “Not with your...stature.”

“Some might say you’re the one obsessed with me, you know.” Somewhere in the back of her mind, Beatrice thinks something about stooping to the same level — but quickly loses sight of it in pursuit of a win. “Accosting me at an elegant event, as if you’re hoping you might slip into the back of a photograph. Would you like me to introduce you to a few of the press?”

It is at this point that Beatrice becomes aware of Kit’s gaze as it lands on her from her position at her side. Perhaps it has been there for a while. She doesn’t turn to meet it, but she can feel the weight of disapproval even without doing so.

“Would you like _me_ to introduce _you_ to dressing for your figure?”

“No thank you, _da_ rling,” Beatrice means to use the word sardonically, to mock Esmé’s own elevated accent, though it actually slips out from her lips with surprising ease. “Not all of us aspire to attend gala dinners dressed like a trainee gymnast.”

Seemingly rendered temporarily speechless (Beatrice is tempted to remark that she thought she would never see the day, but decides against it), Esmé chooses this moment to find an excuse to take a break. She pauses to snatch a champagne flute from a passing waiter with far more force than necessary. As she takes a long sip, gripping the stem too right as though it is her rival’s neck, Beatrice gives her a patronising smile. 

“Careful of that,” she tuts. “Alcohol is absolutely _terrible_ for your voice. And we both know you need all the help you can get.”

She thinks for a moment, with a little guilty thrill, that she might be about to be doused in the remainder of the champagne. This is a very poor showing for Esmé — she can usually land at least one good hit — but, despite the lack of the usual challenge, Beatrice finds she is still rather enjoying herself. 

They are interrupted then by a man from a local theatrical column, who sneaks over to speak to Beatrice about her latest performances. In the name of propriety, he asks if she would like to introduce him to her friends. Knowing that Kit has about as much interest in that as watching paint dry, she skips over her entirely, with a beaming, wicked smile, to extend a hand toward her co-star.

“Oh, you really _should_ meet Esmé — though the part is quite small, she’s been such a sweetheart on set, and I know she is keen to —”

Predictably, Esmé cannot help but snap. “Don’t you associate _me_ with _that_ ,” she spits, too loudly and too viciously. This attracts a startled glance from the columnist himself, and disapproving attention from a couple of the other guests. A flush rises in the tops of her cheeks when she realises her mistake, and Beatrice has to be quick to school her features into an expression of something resembling hurt and disappointment, when she feels it instantly erring toward delight. 

It is so hard to keep her eyes innocent when she watches Esmé swallow, her lips twist and purse, the gears turning in her mind as she tries to think of a way out of the bed she has made for herself. Truly beaten, she eventually gives up entirely — and, with an irritated swipe at the loose tendrils of hair that frame her face, turns on her heel and stalks away. 

“You shouldn’t write that down,” Beatrice simpers, fingers hovering over the columnists wrist, slipping elegantly into her wide-eyed innocent persona while assessing that her rival is still in earshot. “And don’t judge her too harshly. She doesn’t mean it.”

When everyone has gone and she finds herself alone with her dining companion again, Beatrice permits herself a sly little grin. But then she catches Kit’s look, just before she says; “Enjoyed that, did you?”

Kit has a way of saying everything she means to without ever having to say it. The pointed tilt of her head and the sharpness of her intelligent eyes make Beatrice feel uncomfortably seen. “What?”

“That wasn’t particularly kind of you.” Kit says, quite calmly. “That’s all.”

Immediately defensive, Beatrice feels herself bristling. “It was only a game,” she shrugs, perturbed by her friend’s reaction. “She needs to learn to mind her temper, anyway. Consider it _mentoring_.”

Humming in disagreement, Kit folds her arms and assesses her friend coolly. “Do mentors manipulate their students?” she asks meanderingly. “Or, at least, _should_ they?”

“Why would you mind?” Beatrice finds that her own voice sounds a little higher in her ears than usual. “You’ve never liked her, and she _detests_ you.”

“That is not my point,” Kit murmurs, totally unperturbed. “And _I_ wasn’t the one baiting her.”

“It’s only a game.” Beatrice insists. When this doesn’t elicit a good reaction, she rolls her eyes. “And I’ll give her back the necklace next week.”

Kit’s mouth falls open. “So you _did_ take it?”

“Only because I knew it would frustrate her.” Faced with Kit’s disgust, this suddenly doesn’t seem such excellent rationale. “It’s _funny_ , K, you don’t need to look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like this, like —” Unable to find the words for Kit’s look of contempt, and irritated besides that she is being given a lecture on her conduct, Beatrice decides that she simply shouldn’t have to explain herself at all. “Oh, never mind. Lighten up, darling.”

Beatrice hears it herself, this time — the words themselves and the tone reminiscent of the woman she professes to dislike so strongly. Kit's eyes are disappointed, and Beatrice begins to wonder, with a sinking feeling, whether she has more in common with her theatrical enemy than she would like to think. 

Unwilling to admit to that realisation, she just sniffs. “I wouldn’t waste your breath defending her to me, anyway.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Kit agrees, still observing her unblinkingly. “Vapid, nasty, petty individual. I have never liked those things about her at all.”

“Precisely,” Beatrice affirms, feeling unusually wrong-footed. 

“Precisely.” Perhaps feeling that she has landed her point, Kit finally offers her a little forgiving smile and links their arms. “Now, come on. I was promised dinner.”  
  



End file.
